


The Parting Glass

by thejerseydevile



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Hobbit Culture, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2119239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejerseydevile/pseuds/thejerseydevile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the story of what came after for one Bilbo Baggins and his companion, Bofur, following the Quest for Erebor. Told in snippets and memories of a life well lived and a love deeply shared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mountains in the distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HungryHufflepuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HungryHufflepuff/gifts).



> For Hungryhufflepuff, who sails with me on the SS Boffins ;) As a note, this work will be a collection of drabbles that are NOT in chronological order, at all.

Bilbo wants to see mountains.

 

He tells Frodo that consistently with each passing day, fingers worrying the bracelet on his wrist, or sometimes delving into his pocket. Frodo nods in agreement and offers his Uncle a broad smile, though Bilbo can see the tinge of sadness in his deep blue eyes.

 

"Yes, Uncle Bilbo, you should go and see the mountains—Bofur would have liked that."

 

Together they turn to the fireplace—once dominated only by the perfect portraits of the late Mr. and Mrs. Baggins—now proudly displaying a haphazard mix of framed paintings. Some of them are Frodo’s creations, and some of them are Ori’s sketches from the journey, sent over in one of his last packages nearly fifteen years ago but dusted so carefully; they carry deep memories and though Hobbits would tut at his lack in order, he can’t help but love _everything_ about the mess.

 

Best of all—tucked in the middle of this haphazard collection is a painting that was one of Bilbo’s most trying portrait experiences, but is so well loved all the same. It was done nearly fifty years ago, when his hair was still brown and his wrinkles not so prominent, and when _Bofur_ was still laughing and hale and whole.  The painter nearly gave up on them. Bofur never stood still, too giddy that day, and he constantly jostled Bilbo’s arm, ruining the light, pointing out things around the painter’s home, shedding flower petals with each shake of his shaggy head, and _always_ touching gently the bracelet on Bilbo’s wrist.

 

Men exchange rings, elves favor necklaces, and hobbits simply crown their loves with flowers. As for dwarves, they pledge their troth with bracelets placed on the dominant hand—in reverence to the importance of crafting and creating a future together. Or at least, that’s what Bofur claimed, somewhat sheepish that in all that time rolling around Erebor’s treasure hoard, he was foolish enough to not pick up a ring for Bilbo, too.

 

Whatever the tradition, Bilbo pulled the bracelet on and called for a portrait to be painted and through several threats to “hold still” and three trying hours, they had it done up and framed. Bilbo remembers Bofur well enough that he can point out the mistakes the painter made—the way he smoothed out Bofur’s rough edges, and made him a little more plump to suit Hobbit sensibilities, the erasure of the scars and–though happy at the time–the weariness from long travel and unbelievable sights.

 

But if there’s one fictitious addition that Bilbo does not criticize—it is the inclusion of mountains in the far-off distance, depicted as a purple haze through a round window in the background. Those mountains were important to the both of them—to Bofur especially—who spoke of maybe one last trip to the Blue Mountains together, or maybe a foray all the way to Rivendell, to at least see the Misty Mountains somewhat closer.

 

He wouldn’t be able to make Erebor, Bofur had said with a wheezy laugh, but somewhere a little closer, _that_ he could do, before this body of his gave out and he returned to the Stones…

 

 _Yes_ , Bilbo thinks as he worries at the bracelet on his wrist, he wants to see _mountains_ again.


	2. Half-baked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True fact: The correct and proper way to make a piecrust is a topic of serious debate that can potentially cause conflict between you and your bae.

“Bofur, I’m home!” Bilbo called, stamping his feet upon the mat to announce his presence and simultaneously brush off the dirt before he padded into Bag End proper. 

“Welcome back!” Bofur bellowed back—and, curious—it seemed to be coming from the kitchen. “I’m making you a surprise, or well, suppose it’s not too much of a surprise since you’re back early.” 

Bilbo paused at that, then eagerly padded down the hall. He couldn’t smell anything good cooking—at least, not yet—but the kitchen was ever bright and cheery as he stepped in, Bofur’s broad back turned towards him as he hummed a jaunty tune and shuffled at the counter. 

“So what kind of surprise are you making?” 

Bofur raised his head from the mixing bowl with a proud tilt of his chin. 

“A pie,” He said then waved off to the side at a whicker basket piled high with bright, plump fruit. “That basket of blueberries might go off if we don’t do anything with them soon.”

Bilbo snorted, fond, hazel eyes roaming across the floury countertop, then at the flour covering Bofur’s arms like fresh snow, nearly reaching his elbows, with a smudge of it by his dwarf’s nose. 

“A pie, love? It looks more like you’re making a mess,” Bilbo huffed back. 

“Oh aye, but a good thing about a mess is that it can always be cleaned up,” Bofur replied cheerfully, before he dug back into his work, kneading together his dough into a soft ball. Bilbo moved closer to peek over his shoulder, admiring the shape and the consistency of the dough—it looked just about right, actually. And though Bilbo did much of the cooking, Bofur was adept enough in the kitchen to be trusted. (“I was a bachelor, too, but I wasn’t hopeless.”) 

Still, he couldn’t help but ask, especially since Bofur had never made sweets in his—their kitchen before…

“That looks lovely, Bofur,” Bilbo complimented, and noted the way his dwarf preened at the praise. But pie-making is serious stuff in the Shire, and pie-competition even more. Curiosity nagged at him; perhaps there was a dwarrow ingredient he could squirrel away into his prize-winning crust. 

“… So what did you put in it?” Bilbo prodded. 

“Hm?”

“In the dough.”

“Oh this and that,” Bofur drawled with an easy shrug. “A little flour, a little oil...”

“Oil?” Bilbo squawked, brows furrowed and nose wrinkled in confusion. Oil and pie did not mix—as far as he was concerned. After all, he had more than a bit of hobbity pride about his Great-Grandmother’s prize-winning tender crust, made lovingly with a mix of fresh, chilled butter and lard. He had it on good authority that half the Shire coveted this exact recipe, and anything less seemed a travesty. 

“But what about the taste? And how can it to be flaky without the butter and the lard?” 

Despite his hobbit’s protests, Bofur patiently worked at his dough, and unceremoniously upended the mixture onto a waiting pie plate. He didn’t bother to wait to roll it out, instead working it into place with his fingertips—which again seemed to grate at Bilbo’s pie sensibilities. Surprisingly, Bofur took his time to respond, crimping the edge with a nearby fork when he shrugged, and offered a soft reply. 

“Well butter and lard are all well and good, but sometimes my Ma or brother had to improvise. After all, oil lasts longer on the shelf but good butter is a little hard to come by for mining folk like me, do you ken?” 

Hard to come by, for dwarves was left tactfully unsaid. 

There were parts about life in the Blue Mountains and wandering through the mining settlements of Men that Bofur glazed over. Bilbo did not press him for details; Bofur shared what he was comfortable with, in the same way that there were parts that Bilbo kept hidden away—for now, at least. But Dori and Gloin were quite vocal about their dealings with the traders and mountain folk that scrumped along side them. In their experiences, the Men tolerated but did not treat well with dwarves, sometimes squirreling away their produce in the same way that they assumed dwarves hid their gems and gold. These old veterans lamented the loss of Dale and the easy friendship between Men and dwarves then. 

Bilbo swallowed when the weight of it all sunk in. He made a right mess of things—and he wasn’t too sure if a touch, or a hug would compensate for what hard memories he brought up, what he perhaps even insinuated… 

But Bofur was already moving ahead of him, moving on, turning over the bucket of blueberries into the waiting crust, sprinkling a handful of sugar on top and a hint of cinnamon—a distinctly dwarfish taste. He did all this while Bilbo stood awkwardly behind him, scuffing at the floor and wary of what to do or say, until Bofur slipped the pie into the waiting oven and turned round to face him.

“It’s alright, love, I’d be skeptical too—I know you’re a mean cook, and my way isn’t as complicated, or takes the same skill,” He admitted, trying to ease. He reached out one big, calloused paw to touch the side of Bilbo’s face, touch alone trying to say: It’s alright. 

His hobbit leaned into the comforting feel of weathered skin; still, Bilbo frowned.

“But Bofur—I’m sorry—I was terribly rude and cocked things up—“

In a moment he was reminded of a cave and a lightning storm, and a similar disagreement about the definitions of a “home”. Trust in selfish, stogey, peevish, Mad Bilbo Baggins to have a toss over pie, too. 

“Like usual, look at me, making a fine kerfluffle over something lovely that you’re doing as a gift,” he mumbled, and turned away from Bofur’s warm gaze. The dwarf considered him for a moment, and though Bilbo himself was anxious over what he thought a slight, Bofur for his part simply shrugged. 

“Well, that’s the good thing about messes, they can easily be fixed,” Bofur recited again. Then his brown eyes sparkled, and he reached out to pull Bilbo close—gentle, still, always gentle. Bilbo found himself colliding (pleasantly) with his chest, and rearranged himself more comfortably as Bofur held him closer. He couldn’t help but mumble another, small “Sorry” – and earned a nuzzle in return as Bofur leaned comfortably against the floured countertop with a hobbit snug at his front.

“But if you really want to make amends for whatever is getting you tied in knots, dearest hobbit mine,” he began, voice light, still teasing, trying to settle the momentary tension. He promptly settled his chin atop Bilbo’s curls—such were the benefits of a shorter lover—humming in appreciation as he kept Bilbo close. “Then you better eat a big slice once it’s done. Agreed?” 

“… Agreed.” 

(Later, he found he was very pleased with Bofur’s blueberry pie, the oil crust surprisingly was a forgiving dough that did not brown too deeply and held up well with the sweet, thick jam-like consistency of the filling—though his dwarf did concede that perhaps, Bilbo’s flakier, butter-scented crust suited fruit pies just as well.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nonsense about fats (oil vs. butter/lard combo) used in pie crust is true! :') It's a bit of a pet project of mine to try as many pie crusts as I can, because I promised my friend I'd make her pies for her wedding reception
> 
> So yes, this drabble was also inspired by a mad baking frenzy EH EH EH--ps, there will be more about Bilbo and his insecurity to be as loving and giving as Bofur/constantly "missed" communications to come!


End file.
